ide of the manuscript, which
was a roll of paper bound with red tape, but there were no marks of snuff
on the interior of the manuscript, from which I concluded that he had
never opened it.

I had often heard of one Glorious John, who lived at the western end of
the town; on consulting Taggart, he told me that it was possible that
Glorious John would publish my ballads and Ab Gwilym, that is, said he,
taking a pinch of snuff, provided you can see him; so I went to the house
where Glorious John resided, and a glorious house it was, but I could not
see Glorious John--I called a dozen times, but I never could see Glorious
John. Twenty years after, by the greatest chance in the world, I saw
Glorious John, and sure enough Glorious John published my books, but they
were different books from the first; I never offered my ballads or Ab
Gwilym to Glorious John. Glorious John was no snuff-taker. He asked me
to dinner, and treated me with superb Rhenish wine. Glorious John is now
gone to his rest, but I--what was I going to say?--the world will never
forget Glorious John.

So I returned to my last resource for the time then being--to the
publisher, persevering doggedly in my labour. One day, on visiting the
publisher, I found him stamping with fury upon certain fragments of
paper.

"Sir," said he, "you know nothing of German; I have shown your
translation of the first chapter of my Philosophy to several Germans: it
is utterly unintelligible to them." "Did they see the Philosophy?" I
replied. "They did, sir, but they did not profess to understand
English." "No more do I," I replied, "if that Philosophy be English."

The publisher was furious--I was silent. For want of a pinch of snuff, I
had recourse to something which is no bad substitute for a pinch of snuff
to those who can't take it, silent contempt; at first it made the
publisher more furious, as perhaps a pinch of snuff would; it, however,
eventually calmed him, and he ordered me back to my occupations, in other
words, the compilation. To be brief, the compilation was completed, I
got paid in the usual manner, and forthwith left him.

He was a clever man, but what a difference in clever men!

CHAPTER XLIV.

The Old Spot--A Long History--Thou Shalt Not Steal--No
Harm--Education--Necessity--Foam on Your Lip--Apples and Pears--What Will
You Read--Metaphor--The Fur Cap--I Don't Know Him.

It was past mid-winter, and I sat on London Bridge, in company wi